It starts in the Equinox locker room at Fifth and Collins. A sweet coffee drink celling (right under the CELL-FREE ZONE sign). "You going to Twilo? Want me to pick you up?" And then in the steam room, there's a guy with a bat tattoo on his shoulder – except it's not: it's a TWILO Miami tattoo, in that already-familiar graffito font.

The cabbie's never heard of it before. Twilo? It's new? Very, we say. As in opening night. So down into the club zone, that infamous section of Miami which recalls Rotterdam after the War. The cabbie can't understand. Why they want to put all these clubs here?

The police are out in force, but a benign presence. Security which is comforting rather than off-putting. Past Studio A and Space and there it is, the TWILO banner on the side of an unprepossessing building. That must be it. A Red Bull umbrella with a couple of security people hovering about a chain-link fence. It feels like we're going
into lockdown – but there's also something to be said for the club's recessed entrance, off the main club drag. A kind of buffer zone for our kind. Also a smokers' courtyard.

It's only twelve-thirty, but already there's a line. South Florida gets started earlier. We run into Hilton right away. Happy as a clam, as well he should be. The staff is extremely professional and courteous. No heavy attitude, just welcoming. From the outside of the building, you might think Spanish Renaissance – but inside, it's a clean square room. Not unlike Stereo in Montreal or even Twilo New York. A box which is going to find its way based on what the patrons want and need. Already the sound seems sublime. None of that ear-splintering feedback. Two freestanding walls of light, giving the box dimension. A lounge beyond at both ends – and above it all, the booth, hovering over the floor, the better to insure that what's happening is right.

And what Victor is doing is definitely right. There's something about Victor on the Beach. He's got history here, lots of boyz. What he's playing for the first hour or so is warm-up, feeling the place out. Making it his own. He's got to warm it with his sound, which tonight seems a variant of what he used to do at the Hammerstein Ballroom parties: consistent and propulsive. He wants his mass moving as one.

The floor is packed. So much so that no one's in VIP – except for a long-torsoed bartender. They grow them good down here. Ripe and delicious. All that sun energy, so much beautiful skin.

It's hot, very hot. Sweat glistening hot. That smooth yummy skin. And Victor's beat. Once in a while, there's a vocal. Something we recognize. For a minute, but then not. The best thing? The floor. A wooden dance floor. So perfect under the feet.  Such give. Such bounce. Nothing hurts, everything's easy.

Water, we need water. Victor hasn't let us get water for nearly an hour. We straggle back to the lounge. Stumble down the stairs. Drenched and parched. Are you having fun? Someone asks. You're having fun, right? Well, yeah. Hello? Look at us. And then we're talking, and he says, Lemme give you our card – and then we realize, it's GreatPartyPics boyz. August and Parzham. OMG. At last. After so many emails and postings, we're meeting at last. Hello, boyz. What sweethearts. And their friend Roberto, and then there's Tony Hayden, and Mel, too.

Already there's a sense of family in this club. The latest Saturday night gay club in a long line of South Beach/Miami clubs. The right people involved. It's only going to get better.

And we turn the corner by the wall of lights – and who should we see? What is about the only element missing at this particular point in time? There she is, the one and only. It's her. Really her. Because of course how could she miss an opening (and this is so much more than an envelope). It's Nurse. It's Chris. She's on the floor. She's werqing it. She's wild and wonderful. Photo op, photo op. (And just how the hell does she manage to make it so she always looks good in those shots? Secret, please.)

Victor's really in the zone now. So are we all. This is what we're here for.  To sweat it off, to work it out. There's a song called "Genocide" playing. It reminds you.  Makes you remember. It's not like this everywhere. This is "Freedom," which is how another song has it. The freedom to dance. Not everyone has it. Make the most of it. Get out there, werk it out.

It's nearly six a.m. when we leave. We might be the first to walk out. No one else seems to be leaving. That's how South Florida plays: all morning long. Next door the lines are along the block for Space. Roger Sanchez is there all morning. On the roof deck. Hilton's taking Mel, to relax.

We're frantic about a cab, but even that anxiety is unnecessary. The police direct us, politely – and before long we're back on the Beach.

What a fun night. What a fun space. It's what we need down here, a good Saturday night gay club. Looking forward to doing it all again. Congrats to all involved.